


War Games

by hellopurpletiger (Felix_Kawaii)



Series: Library of W.I.Ps (emphasis on the W not the P) [4]
Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 21:37:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14270067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Felix_Kawaii/pseuds/hellopurpletiger
Summary: Percy Jackson is relocated from the shores of District 4 to the slums of Twelve in hopes of something better than the harsh hand he's been dealt. Life in District 12 is harsher than he suspected, but perhaps he's not made for life behind the electric fencing, instead for whatever lies beyond.The woods are filled with dangers; poison, discarded Capitol mutts, flesh-eaters and worst of all - monsters straight from the depths of Tartarus.





	1. Twelve

**Author's Note:**

> Work in progress, emphasis on the work not the progress...

There is white everywhere. Each surface of the square box room is a dull ivory chrome. A single bed lies in the centre. Amongst all this cleanliness, the Jacksons stand out like black smudges on blank paper.

There are only two left in this family, only a mother and son. The mother lies on the bed. Her son is on the floor. Ten year old Percy shivers and rubs his bare arms, glancing at his mother over the edge of a worn handkerchief covering his mouth and nose. She is so thin. Both are, but his mother more so. She lies on the starched white sheets completely still; her eyes closed and sunk, breathing shallow, raspy breaths, hollow cheeks that have long since lost their glow, pale skin that has turned an unhealthily translucent. Her chest rattles with each gasp of air.

"Mom," his eyes shift nervously round the room but rest on her. "Are you cold?" He whispers, is that Peacekeeper still outside? Can his mom hear him?

There is no response, not from the nasty, bludgeon-carrying Peacekeeper – whom Percy is more than happy to ignore - outside in the train corridor and not from his mother.

"Mom?" He tiptoes to her bedside. "Are you cold?" He prods her clammy, limp hand with his own finger. "Mom, want another blanket?" He tries again with another poke.

Success. A reaction

Sally Jackson opens her eyes but winces at the harsh light and shuts them again; only catching a glimpse of her son perched on the end of the bed, green eyes alight over the edge of the greying cloth she had tied over his face all those years ago. Had it been so long? It catches her by surprise a little and she tries to imprint his image into her head as her vision clears, shocked at how much he seems to have grown in her absence. He hasn't grown much taller but each time she opens her eyes he seems to have aged a little.

She forces a smile, despite the dull pain in the back of her head, but shakes her head slightly in response to whatever it is he must have said. Knowing Percy, it must have been him worrying.

"Then," Percy's mother can't see it, but his face grows warm and he looks down, fingering the frayed hem of his t-shirt as he waits for it to pass. Blushing is not cool, even if no one is there to see you. "C-can I sleep with you?"

There is silence. Sally can almost feel Percy's eager eyes on her face, awaiting her answer, but she can't think of a way to tell him without breaking his heart. Most of the time it is him looking after her and yet, occasionally, her son's walls crumble to let her in but at those times – like now – she always manages to ruin it. Eyes still shut, Sally is reminded of happier times. Percy, blowing out candles on a blue cake, cheering and running around, making funny noises.

"Percy." She starts, but chokes up when she opens her eyes to see him jumping up and down excitedly, the smile on his face is warm. She can only guess how much her little boy has longed for a hug. She has longer for the same too. "...You know I..." The disease stealing her life is contagious, as if claiming her two youngest children wasn't enough, it has comeback to ravage her as well. She struggles to find the words to explain why she can't hold him and cuddle him, love him like all those other kids, but doesn't have to when great hacking coughs interrupt her badly prepared answer. Guiltily, she watches through smarting eyes. Her chest hurts, reminding her of the sickness that threatens both their lives but also of the hurt she causes her son.

His image blurs. The dull red of his shirt muddies and mixes with the grey of the room.

"Mommy, I was only kidding!" He grins half-heartedly as his little fingers tuck the sheets around her. "I'm boiling out here," He lies unconvincingly as he forces back tears. He lifts his arms animatedly hoping she can't see the goose bumps that dot his skin. "And I'm way, way too old for snuggles now." He squeezes her hand reassuringly before dropping to the ground by her bed. “Hugs and stuff are for babies!”

Sally wants to tell him that he doesn't have to be so strong. That he's only a kid, but she is so tired. The ache in her head intensifies. She can’t voice her thoughts.

Percy sits on the cold, smooth floor in the foetal position, giving himself as much warmth as possible. He pulls his loose grey shorts up a little, and pulls his legs and one arm into his t-shirt. He wraps it round his knees but keeps his other arm on the edge of his bed, clasping his mother's fingers through the thin bedsheet. He hopes their new home won’t be so cold.

In the silence, he hears a guard outside, a Peacekeeper, in the corridor. "Lights out."

The lights dim to blackness but Percy can't sleep. Again and again, he shuts his eyes only to open them a few seconds later. The minutes tick away without him. District Four is behind them now. Twelve will be a fresh start. His mom will get better. They will find a doctor. Hungrily, Percy feeds himself lie after lie, waiting for morning to come.

As Percy steps out of the train, his stomach feels like lead, his chest hurts from disappointment. The station is a drab gray, no better than the clinical prison he and his mother had been placed in. For the fourth time the new Peacekeeper jabs him with a baton as he pushes his mother down the ramp. The wheelchair was a 'gift from the Capitol', but even Percy at ten can understand that it is only because nobody wants to touch them that they give his mother a wheelchair.

_ Stab, prod, poke. _

His jaw clenches, fists grip the handles of the chair angrily. It wouldn’t take much effort to swing round and kick him hard in his soft spot. He is quite fast after all.

"How old are you?" Their guard asks again as they pass through the quiet streets of Twelve, face shielded by his helmet. The sun isn't even up yet. The streets are empty.

"Ten," Percy replies quietly, but scowls behind his cloth mask. This guy has the memory span of a goldfish.

The Peacekeeper sighs again. "Kid, if you say twelve, you could get two tesserae entries for you and your mom. And it's not like you'll be picked at the reaping with only two."

Percy remains silent. It seems like a good deal, but still, it is awfully shifty. This is a Peacekeeper after all. The prick will probably sell him out.

They pass what Percy assumes to be the Square. A large building stands facing south with Capitol flags hanging limp in the dry air. In the centre of the Square, a dark stain coats the floor in a puddle. Briefly, Percy wonders who was flogged and what they did. There is a lot of blood.

"I'll be around," The Peacekeeper continues, "Ask around for Darius if you change your mind but be discrete. We need more kids for the Reaping;" He adds casually, "Most are starved to death around these parts."

Darius leads them a long way from the station and almost suddenly, as if there is some sort of divide the houses change from immaculate, pristine terrace houses to shacks with broken windows and peeling paint. The further they go into the area, which Darius calls 'The Seam', the worse it gets. There are stray dogs so skinny that their ribs bare through their patchy skin and rubbish lingers round the edges of the cracked road. Percy takes it all in, glad that his mother is asleep.

Where they lived in Four, they were by the beach, so close that storms would cause the house to flood but they hadn't starved. Four are oppressed and scared but at least they can catch a fish when the Peacekeepers turn their backs. As long as he fished at night, they had been fine. Here, it looks like everyone is going hungry and staying that way for a while. No midnight fishing goes on round here. But better than being locked up forever, he supposes.

The Peacekeeper shows them down a small lane. The row of eight shacks on both sides are charred and black. The smell of burning lingers in the air, whether it’s his imagination or not is difficult to tell. At the end of the lane is one with a rusty corrugated iron roof. Darius pushes its door open and wrinkles his nose.

Inside there is enough space in the blackened room for a mattress and perhaps some cooking equipment, but in a new district, Percy is at a loss of how to find them. How will Mom sleep tonight?

"Err..." Darius stands awkwardly at the door, unwilling to pass the threshold. "I'll take my leave here." He turns to leave but stops short. "Welcome to Twelve." He snorts.

In Percy’s head, it translates as:  _ Welcome to Hell. _

He waits until the door shuts before he goes around and checks the house out. The place has one floor like their old beach-hut. Two out of the four rooms are crumbling and sooty, burnt so bad that the external wall has collapsed and the back of the house is more like an open porch than a room. Percy stands at the edge of fraying, rotting floor boards of what he assumes was once a bedroom and looks directly outside.

A grassy meadow sways in the wind. Across it sits the boundary fence. It’s practically right in their back yard, perhaps only two hundred or so yards away. He could sprint it, maybe. The metal mesh is strung around as far as the eye can see only briefly interrupted by faded orange warning signs. Behind it the forest crouches.

Percy turns away. If he was alone, he could make it maybe. It’s a horrifying thought. His face burns, his heart is thunderous. He snatches away from it but the thing lingers in his head, like a festering wound.

The living room, where Mom is, is not too bad. The fires seem only to have eaten away the back of the house, leaving the front soot covered but not beyond repair. Round the back there is even a water pump that creaks but no water comes out. Still, its something.

He leaves his mom in the house while he scouts the other houses. If there is anything he can salvage, he’s going to need it. The house next to his has no roof and the windows have been smashed, but the door opens easily. Inside he finds a dirty old pot with an old rats nest inside but takes it anyways. The next house is empty. And so is the next.

By the end of the lane, he only has the pot and a rusty spoon.

Percy takes a gamble and crosses the Meadow. He doesn’t like the idea of being caught near the boundary line but he’s starving. The last thing he has tasted is the fish stew he made back in Four with the last of the fish guts he’d filched from the waste buckets at market. It was disgusting, gloopy stuff but now he wishes he’d eaten more of it. Absentmindedly, he kicks debris out of his way as he worries about whether the fence is electrified like the signs say. To be honest, he hasn’t got a lot to lose, but if he dies, who will feed his mother?

Behind him the grass rustles. Percy throws himself behind a tree, barely avoiding the electric hoops of metal.

A girl, older than him, emerges from the tall grasses and glances around nervously. He daren’t breathe. She bites her lip and passes him so close that he can see the fraying threads of her brown jacket, can smell the soot of the district. She wears a cap and a frown of concentration.

A few yards away, she stops and stands stock still. And then she crouches down, separates the bushes at her knees and disappears. Percy blinks. How did she do that? He comes out from his hiding place just as she emerges on the other side of the fence and breaks into a run. She doesn’t appear to see him.

“Clever.” He mutters to no one but himself. Concealed beneath the clump of greenery is a small trench of loose soil. It’s quite a sizable hole and he slides through on his belly no problem. The fence isn’t even live. Percy brushes himself off and stares in wonder. The smells of the forest are so different to the stench of ash and bitter burning in the house. So different to the salty sea air back in Four.

Far off, birds sing off-key and the wind rustles through the trees. He wades further into the greenery, brushing plants aside. Despite the calming scenery, he knows he’s desperately out of his comfort zone.  Fishing is what he has lived, breathed and slept for the last five years. Though he has never been on an actual fishing boat, he has fished on a raft and that used to be enough. Making his mother’s share of nets or gutting fish was his life while he watched the other children go to and from school, chittering.

He’s not quite sure how far he’s walked when he comes across the first snare. A squirrel is trapped in its vice, still alive. He leans forward to examine the device. The snare appears simple: a piece of wire looped twice round a thin branch with an easy strangle knot round the squirrel’s abdomen. It doesn’t look too different from fish traps back in Four, where netting is used instead of wire. Percy breaks the squirrel’s neck and unwinds the wire. It’s a little time consuming but he has no resources of his own.

Next time, he vows, he’ll bring a bag of some sort.

By the time he navigates his way home, having gotten lost a couple times, the sun is setting. He only has two squirrels (courtesy of someone else’s traps) and a handful of wild onions he’s sure he’s seen before but dinner tonight will be a real treat. His mother might actually eat.

But when the soup is boiled she won’t so much as touch it and turns her nose away. “Mommy,” he begs, holding the spoon by her chapped lips, “Please.” She purses her lips and shakes her head.

Sally doesn’t look at him. “I can’t keep it down.”

“You haven’t even tried.”

Truth is, she’s scared. Every time she eats, it comes back up and leaves her weaker than before, shaking and hurting. “I can’t.”

Percy stands firm. “You have to eat.” His little voice wavers a little. “Otherwise… I won’t either…”

“…Oh, alright then.” She takes a sip, amazed at her little boy’s cooking but takes no more.

His eyes sparkle and in the darkness, despite his small stature, unbroken voice, Sally almost sees his father standing before her. The same dark unruly hair, sea eyes that soften when they see her, tan skin from frolicking in the outdoors for too long. She misses him. As she looks at Percy, she wonders if he even remembers the man that tucked him in at night, or told him stories of heroes and monsters before he could even speak. She wonders if he misses his siblings.

As Percy drapes his own small shirt over her, she wonders: can she be selfish enough to leave him? Or will he even let her go?


	2. Hunting

Katniss watches him carefully, silently envying the way his hands work quickly at the snares. Gale seems to be saying something – probably some other knot – but she doesn’t hear the words.

“And that’s it,” He finishes as he lays the wire loop on the ground. He looks at her suspiciously. “You get all that?”

“Uh, Yeah.” She says and takes her own length of wire, attempting to copy it. The knot looks complex and duplicating it is hard, especially when she hasn’t been paying attention. By the time she is done, the trap vaguely resembles Gale’s own but the wire is bumpy and full of kinks where attempts at the knot have failed utterly. The final knot is a little too tight and the loop is too small. It will only catch a squirrel or vole. Gale’s will catch birds or rabbits.

Katniss’s face burns with the comparison.

“Hey, it’s not that bad.” Gale seems to be trying not to laugh. “Just give it a little more practice.”

Her eyes narrow. “You’re laughing at me!” She accuses.

“No I’m not.” The corners of his lips tilt up unconvincingly.

“Fine then,” She snaps, “Let’s see your shooting, Oh-so-great-Gale-of-the-Snares.” She throws a bow at him angrily and crosses her arms as she plops down on a rock. She is hot and bothered and it’s not even a school day. Only a few weeks ago, she was bringing fresh game home every night. Now that Gale’s joined her - or has she joined him? – he has to stop every time she sets a snare to correct her. He’s only two years older – fourteen.

Gale holds the bow uncertainly and slides the arrow in. And then it’s Katniss’s turn to attempt to hide a smile as he lifts the bow, one hand on the grip. He clasps the arrow between his fingers and she knows for sure he’ll clip them off the tail when he releases.

“Where should I aim?” He asks; head tilted and arrow simultaneously falling unceremoniously onto the floor.

That’s about all Katniss can take before she bursts out laughing. He tries to scowl at her but ends up smiling too as he bends down to pick it up. Probably the first time he’s seen her laugh, she snorts.

She leaps up from the rock and takes long strides towards him. “Look, you’ve got your grip all wrong.” She tutts and rearranges his hands. Gale watches without complaint but his face holds a noticeable frown. She wonders if he likes being told what to do by a twelve year old. His left hand holds the bow just beneath where the arrow shaft crosses it and his right hand grips the string.

She steps away to admire her handiwork.

Gale stands still as a statue. “Can I go now?” He doesn’t attempt to keep the exasperation out of his voice.

“Aim for the redwood.”

“That’s quite a distance.” He remarks as he takes aim.

“If you go wide...” Katniss says, leaving a threat.

He pulls the string back. It’s going to have some power in it, she thinks, Gale has drawn the bow so tight she’s worried it will snap. She only has three. He releases the arrow and the shaft shoots through the woods.

And she’d be loath to admit, but it’s not a bad shot. It has good speed, nice power… but goes so out that it’s nowhere near the large redwood tree. Katniss rolls her eyes, “Typical.” She mutters as Gale blushes from his attempt.

They walk briskly through the forest, Gale in front for ‘protection’. Katniss doesn’t need protection, especially not from wild animals. What she needs is protection from hunger, protection from the Capitol and that’s not exactly something anyone, let alone one boy armed with cheese wire and a knife, can do.

The arrow has landed at the base of a tree near the lake and Katniss jogs up to collect it, but as she crouches to pick it up she stops. Gale’s snare, she notes with a smirk. It has a funny knot, like the strangle knot he likes so much but it’s a bad job and has another different knot tied over it. Still, it’s caught something. She picks up the wire length and turns. “Gale, if you’re so good at snares, what the hell’s this?”

Gale crouches down to examine it and she stands up to examine him. Her hunting partner is small and slight, but no smaller than kids from The Seam usually are. The same black hair and grey eyes, olive skin. They could be siblings. To be completely honest, she’s not quite sure what to make of him. He’s a nice person, not in her class at school but supposedly kind, quiet and well-liked. Still, here in the woods he’s also hunting for his family’s survival, what if he suddenly turned round and snared  _ her _ for taking his game? He’s bigger than her so she doubts she could take him on in a fight. Perhaps she should try and be nice to him more.

“No, this isn’t mine.” Gale stands up, but eyes the goose hanging from its trap greedily. “You sure it’s not yours.”

Katniss shakes her head. “Definitely not, you know I hate doing strangle knots.”

“Even though it’s the best one for snares.”

She unhooks the snare from the branches of the tree. “Let’s take it and split it.”

“You don’t want to sell it?” He says, “You’ll get a good price.”

“No, Prim would love it.” Katniss grins as she holds the dead bird in the crook of her arm. “I’ve only brought squirrels home in the last week. I think she’s sick of them.”

Gale is about to reply when he suddenly grabs her arm and yanks her towards the forest floor, just as silver flash comes whizzing past, seemingly out of nowhere and a knife lodges itself in the tree with a thunk - right where Katniss’s face had been. On the way, the blade skims the side of her face and even as Katniss drops to the ground, she can feel the sting. She hisses and clutches her cheek glaring at the direction the knife came from. Her mouth is half-way open when stoic, mostly calm Gale jumps up.

“What the hell!” He yells loudly enough that Katniss knows it will scare off game, but she’s too distracted by him. “You could have killed her!” The blood on her cheek is warm.

In the distance a boy emerges, smaller than her but older than Prim though it’s difficult to tell when food is scarce as it is. He jogs towards them only wearing shorts and a faded shirt, his arms like sticks. Gale is too stunned to do anything, as is she. In her father’s old hunting jacket and nice warm trousers, Katniss suddenly feels grateful. Must be cold.

“Stealing is punishable by death, you know.” The small boy says coldly, in a way she can never imagine being said by little Prim or any of Gale’s siblings. He doesn’t mention that fact that hunting is too. His tan skin and green eyes make it obvious he’s not from around here but dark hair ensures he’ll probably fit in eventually.

Gale is the first to regain his thoughts. “Yeah, but you just tried to kill my friend here.” He reasons, stoic again. Katniss feels her cheeks grow warm, but doesn’t say anything. Gale is probably the only person who would call her ‘friend’.

“Next time, I won’t miss.” He says and snatches the goose (which Katniss had dropped) off of the ground, then yanks the knife from the tree. He turns to leave.

“You know, you’ve got good game there,” Gale suddenly says, stopping the boy in his tracks. “You should trade it in at the Hob.”

The boy spins round, confused. “The… Hob? Is that like the Grange?”

It’s their turn to be confused. “What’s the Grange?”

“The market…well the shadier one in…” He trails off, “Never mind, so it’s the black market?”

 

Gale looks around, uncertainly. Capitol mutts could be around listening in. “What district are you from?”

The boy looks uncomfortable. “Twelve.”

Katniss doesn’t believe it for a second. But Gale seems to like the boy. “And you’ve never heard of the Hob?”

The boy fumbles with the frayed hem of his shirt.

“We can show you where it is.”

She knows where Gale is going with this. She can see the understanding, pity in his eyes. It irks her; they have nothing to gain from this. One minute they’ve showed the boy the Hob, the next they’ll become a trio of hunters. Besides, the boy just chucked a knife at her head! While the kid is distracted, she jabs Gale hard in the stomach so that he turns round and whispers angrily to her. “What the hell was that for?”

Katniss mimics him. “What the hell are you doing?!” She glances frantically at boy, her voice low but hopefully harsh enough to smack some sense into her stupid hunting partner. “He’ll take our game and the business we get at the Hob. Are you stupid?”

“Oh come on, Katniss. He’s only a kid!”

“And he almost killed me!”

Gale shakes his head, “That means he’s a crack shot at game as well.”

“You’re comparing my head to game?” Katniss can’t believe it. Minutes ago, he was telling the world they were friends and now she’s game? She refuses to make this easy for him.

“No, of course not,” Gale tries to recover. “What I meant is…”

The boy’s voice interrupts him. “If you two are done saying your vows, I’d like to get going before someone tells you to kiss.”

Gale and Katniss jump apart, their faces red. “We weren’t!” They say at the same time.

The smaller boy rolls his eyes, “Whatever you say.”

Gale reaches one calloused hand to help her up. “Come on, Catnip,” He says, his tone light. “Let’s go get you cleaned up.”

They spend the next hour checking the snares while the boy disappears and pops up again to his own accord. When they’re finally done the three of them make their way back through the forest in an almost silence. Gale leads the way with Katniss close behind. She doesn’t like it. How can Gale trust this kid so easily? For all she knows, he could attack them and make off with their game. The boy stays a couple metres behind them the whole way.

At first, Gale attempts a conversation.

“So, you been here long?”

“Yes.”

“Oh… You encountered any flesh-eaters yet?”

“No.”

“Hmm… You got a name, kid?”

“Yes, and it’s not kid.”

The rest of the journey is mostly silent. They trek for a while before the boundary fence looms over the hill. Back to Twelve, Katniss thinks with a sigh. The Hob smells of Greasy Sae’s cooking when they arrive. She stands at a three-legged table by the door, next to the large kettle and gives them a yellow toothy smile as they come in. “Hello Katniss, Gale,” She says, “You got any nice pickings today?”

Katniss is about to show her the good armful or so of greens they have in their bags when Gale, still by the door, reaches his hand out and drags the boy inside. The Hob’s customers are all familiar faces, as are the traders who man the stalls so in an instant; all eyes are on them – staring at the new addition. The boy shifts uncomfortably under their stares.

Greasy Sae grins and shakes her head, “Sorry Gale, I don’t cook brats. Not enough meat on them.”

“No, no,” Gale laughs; it’s loud and echoes through the quiet room. “He’s got some stuff for you.”

The kid takes it as a sign to barge past him and lay his bounty out on the table. Katniss, and Gale, and Sae, are surprised. He has very little greens, to be honest, a handful of wild onions and a few nettles, but makes up for it with two rabbits, one vole and three fish. Finally he slugs the goose onto the table. It doesn’t take long for the other traders to come up and begin haggling him for a price. And perhaps they underestimate him, just because he is so young, and offer low prices. It’s not a bad turn out though, because as young as he is, the kid sure seems to have experience in these kinds of situations.

In the end, with a bit of help from Gale, he comes away with a thin blanket, a couple of chunks of paraffin and a good size leather hunting bag that’s a bit big on his shoulders.

And then he’s gone.

Once they finish their business in the marketplace, they walk back to The Seam. All Gale can talk about is the boy. Will he have enough food? How old is he? Gale thinks ten or eleven. Where is he staying?

Why’d he sell the goose if he could keep it, is what Katniss really wants to know.

But they don’t get a chance to ask him these questions because the next morning he isn’t in the woods. Nor the next.

It is more than four years later before Katniss thinks she sees him again.

A glimpse of his sympathetic face amongst the crowd on the day of the Reaping as she walks up to the podium.


	3. Risk

Percy holds his mother’s hand as he attempts to prop her up. She’s feather light – it’s like she is barely there. This has been going on for a couple of days now. It started when he came home one evening to find her scarcely breathing in the makeshift bed he made. Never in his life had he been so scared. He prodded her hand like he usually did, then turned to shaking her shoulders before screaming at her to  _ “Open your eyes! Please!” _ until his voice was hoarse. And then she coughed, and he had never been so pleased to hear the raspy sound.

But she doesn’t get better. By now it’s getting to the point where she is constantly shivering and murmuring to herself, somewhere between being awake and unconscious. Some days she will sleep the whole time, others she has fitful naps and wakes up screaming. This is wearing him down.

“Po…seidon?” She whispers, wheezing.

Briefly Percy wonders who she is seeing when she looks past him with clouded irises. “Mom?” He tries to get through to her.

“Where are you, Poseidon?” She continues.

He frowns, has she not heard him? “I’m here.” He doesn’t bother to correct her. She is deteriorating fast. Sure, he’s seen the signs before but still he wants to cry. He knows what will happen next. It happened first with Atalanta, his younger sister, she’d been so young but at three it was unusual to be waking feverish in the middle of the night shrieking incoherently. And then it had been the youngest, Tyson. God, the thought of them makes his eyes smart. His chest burns at their memory.

He has to do something.

Springing out of his mother’s frail grip, Percy grabs his empty forage bag and makes for the door. It’s midday but if he leaves now, he can get something to trade for medicine before sundown.

“Don’t…” Behind him he can hear her wheezing. “Don’t go.”

Frantically, Percy scrubs the tears from his eyes. “I’ll only be gone for a bit.” He says but doesn’t turn round.

He slams the door behind him without meaning to. What can he do? There must be a doctor somewhere in Twelve, but he’ll never be able to afford it. He toys with the idea that he could trade some game for it but doubts they’ll accept that either. A squirrel being offered by a scrawny kid who probably doesn’t look like he’s ever eaten a decent meal will get him turned away. Or maybe… a different thought enters his mind. What about stealing?

Percy hides behind a trashcan, scanning the brightly coloured streets for a good target.

The people walking around chat amiably and pay him no heed. What must it be like – he watches as they walk past – to have pockets lined with gold?

It blows his mind how cruel people are, as if he doesn’t know already. Behind him, just a street away, is The Seam but the people here in Merchant’s Area live cosily, wrapped in their own world with warm beds and bread in their mouths. Do they not see the people in The Seam or do they not want to see?

A girl exits a house on the opposite side of the road but doesn’t check that it’s shut properly. This is it! He tenses, ready to break into a run. She’s older than him and walks in the opposite direction, probably heading for the Public Market. Dressed in a pale pink skirt and grey jumper, it’s easy to tell that she’s rich but if she is then there will be more value in her house than on her person most likely. In a rushed decision, he chooses to raid the house over pick-pocketing.

He darts across the road as fast as he can keeping his head down. Luckily, the other pedestrians are too busy to take notice of a small boy slipping into the large house. Inside, the house is silent and he shuts the door carefully. The locks slide shut with a quiet click.

Will it open later? He can only hope.

Percy opens each door along the corridor methodically. The first one is some sort of sitting room, with an unlit black furnace topped with a mountain of coal and a white animal skin rug on the floor. The chairs are cushioned and brightly coloured and spotless. He looks around the room but finds nothing of value. The next room is the bathroom and the only thing of use there is the hand cloth draped on a knob, embroidered with gold thread. He snatches it.

The fourth room he peers into, he strikes gold. The kitchen. It’s unlike anything he’s ever seen: cupboards and surfaces made of polished wood with grain so smooth it feels like velvet and metal handles and furnishings that gleam in the light. Immediately he gets to work, raiding the first cupboard and picks the largest pot he sees. Shoving the cloth and a few other knick-knacks inside, he continues on. There’s a sharp knife made of what looks to be pretty durable metal, a roll or two and a large shiny red apple he’s only ever seen Peacekeepers eat.

Peacekeepers… if he’s caught, no matter whose house this is, he’ll be dead before he can even scream.

He opens a different cabinet. It’s not wooden like the other drawers and cupboards, but lacquered black and it’s large; stretching from ceiling to floor. He gives it a pull but it stays firmly shut. Percy grins, whatever is inside must be important. He gives it a good tug and it comes away with a strange sucking sound. The door swings open and he is amazed.

The inside of it is cold! A blast of cold air greets him happily, cooling the sweat that drips down his neck. Inside is not gold nor silver but food. And boy, is there a lot of it! He pops open a bottle of yellow liquid and takes a sniff. His mouth waters as the sweet smells of some fruit wafts up. Percy screws the lid and slips it in. It’s only one bottle, he reasons, no one will notice. He’s about to shut the door when he spots it.

A big, fat, wheel of creamy looking white cheese.

It’s in the top shelf but the sight of it makes Percy’s head spin and before he knows what he’s doing, he’s already half way up the glass shelves, gripping with his toes and fingers. The cold shelves shift slightly as he climbs and he doesn’t dare look down. The medicine better be amazing, he grunts as his fingers brush its edges but can’t grasp it. Percy climbs one more shelf. But it’s too full, he can’t find a good place to get up onto it and, while his foot grapples for a place, his hands slip, clammy from supporting his weight.

He comes crashing down, narrowly missing the pot of goods he’s ‘borrowed’. He takes quite a few shelves with him and bottles of sticky liquids fall to the floor with loud smashes, closely followed by various foods landing on him. The crash seems thunderous in the empty house but Percy sits up and laughs. The lump of cheese is right next to him.

A door slams.

“Madge!”

He freezes. Holy crap.

“Madge? Is that you?” Footsteps sound across the ceiling from the floor above and Percy scrambles to his feet, swiping the cheese. He has to get out of here.

“I thought I told you to go get some jam!” It sounds like an elephant stomping down the stairs, but he ignores it and scans the room for an exit.

“Madge!”

The window!

Percy sticks the pot under his arm and pushes the pane. It comes away easily. Percy stands on the ledge and leaps off.

And just in time too. The kitchen door swings open just as he jumps and the scream from inside whistles in his ears as he falls. “THIEF!!” It’s not a long way, he’s on the first floor but it’s enough that he manages to land badly on his shoulder, body slamming into the dirt. Percy gasps in pain but rises despite it. It won’t be long before the place is swarming with Peacekeepers and he has a bounty on his head.

Percy runs, somewhat dizzily, down the back streets and rushes towards the only apothecary in The Seam. He’s never been before but has heard enough from Azorn, one of the traders in The Hob. With only three words for directions,  _ fourth street down, _ it takes him a good half hour of running around to find the house. And even then, he’s not sure it’s the right one. It’s grey like every other house with the same rotting porch and smashed windows. Fourth street down could be anywhere, he curses.

Tentatively, he knocks on the door. If he’s wrong then perhaps he can get some proper directions.

There is the sound of scuffling inside and the footsteps stop by the door as if afraid to open it. What if they don’t let him in? What if they can’t do anything for his mother?

“Please,” He says, hoping his voice will reach whoever’s behind the door, “Is this the Everdeen’s place? The apothecary?”

For a moment, he thinks that someone will come and shoo him away but the door unlocks and opens. Percy tries not to stare, he really does, but he can’t help it. The girl that opens the door is younger than him, with blonde hair and blue eyes, looking nothing like the others in The Seam.

“Come in…” The girl says quietly.

The house is such a direct contrast to the other house in the Merchant’s Area that it hurts to look at. Its furnishings are bare, the window panes are speckled with dust, it’s layout is simple. But for a moment he wishes this house was his, and not the collapsing, sooty, charred structure that he had left his mother in.

“How can I help you?” She asks, eying the bag on his back.

Percy doesn’t bother with pleasantries either, he has no time. “I need medicine, my mother is ill.”

“What symptoms is she suffering from?”

“Um,” It takes him a moment to recount everything, “She has a high fever, she won’t stop shivering, she doesn’t… she doesn’t recognize me.” His voice breaks at the end.

The girl nods but seems to understand. “I won’t do anything without payment, though.” Her voice wavers a bit.

He takes the bag from his back and takes out the pot of good food. It looks so delicious just sitting there. “I’d hide those if I were you, I didn’t exactly get them legally.”

Immediately the girl starts rifling through it. “Is this real cheese?” She asks, eyes wide. He nods. “And the bread? And the drink? And the… oh is this really…” She stops and puts the pot down, an excited smile on her face. “I’ll get started right away.”

While she works they make small talk. Her name is Primrose but she likes to be called Prim. She’s eight years old, two younger than him. She learnt to make medicine from her mother. Prim has a sister who is twelve, called Katniss.

The name rings a bell.

Percy tries to keep from telling her anything, only letting his own name slip and his mother’s condition. Prim seems like a nice person and doesn’t pry.

“I’m sorry,” Prim says as he leaves with a small rag of herbs, “I only have enough for one dosage. Boil it with some water and get your mother to drink as much as she can. It has to be fresh so you’ll need to come back tomorrow, I’ll have some more ready for you but you won’t need to pay me again.”

By the time he leaves, The Seam is swamped by Peacekeepers. Percy avoids the white-coats as much as he can, ducking into alleys and into shadows. They must be looking for him. He manages to make it home without being stopped. Whoever’s up there seems to be on his side for once.

The house is dark when he arrives home, so he lights a cube of paraffin and sets the makeshift lamp-jar on the floor by his mother while he prepares her medicine. She seems to be asleep, her chest rising and falling slowly. It’s the first time he’s seen her at peace in so many days that, he admits, it worries him.

He wakes her up, gently, holding a wet cloth to her face. “Mom,” His voice is barely above a whisper.

In the semi-darkness her eyes flicker open, clouded with sleep - maybe.

“I got you some medicine.” He props her up against the wall. “It’s gonna make you better.”

Surprisingly, she makes no fuss about being fed and finishes most of it – only falling asleep halfway through. He chucks the rest of the stuff out. It stinks.

Percy lies down on the cold floor next to her and blows the flame of the candle out. They’ll need to stock up for the winter. In the darkness, he can see the profile of his only friend, protector and confidant lying on a thin mattress. And the thought of losing her is too much to bear.

As he closes his own eyes, Percy makes a small silent prayer to whatever has watched over him today.

_ Let her live. _


	4. Whisper

It is black. Nice, warm, fuzzy, comforting black. Perhaps, he can just stay here and hide himself away. “Perseus,” there is a voice. “Perseus?”

Why can’t they just leave him alone?

“Perseus,” The voice is familiar, soft, almost melodic – even though it isn’t singing. “Percy.”

Percy opens his eyes slowly, adjusting to the light. It streams through cracks, between the corrugated roof and the wood walls, that pool on the floor. He groans. Morning, already. He definitely needs to hunt today. As if on cue, his stomach growls, a pang of pain shooting up his abdomen. 

“Well, somebody’s hungry.” He freezes. This voice… No way. Tentatively, he turns his head

His mom is sitting up next to him, propped on the wall. He has to be dreaming, he rubs his eyes, pinches the skin on his forearm until he draws blood. Her blue eyes are open, she is smiling her typical  _ Percy  _ smile and she is holding her arms up. At that moment, he forgets about whatever disease she has – later, he suspects she had too – and crashes into her arms. She is alive! He can feel tears falling down his face but it never occurs to him to wipe them away.

“Mommy,” He breathes, feeling giddy, she smells like the lilies that grow in Four. Light and fragrant. A blast of Summer. “Mom.” The medicine worked! He wants to jump up and down and spin and laugh and cry and… It’s her first coherent moment in years.

“Percy,” There it is, her laugh. Oh god, he’s missed it. It makes him smile too. “Help me up.”

He stares at her frail body through blurry eyes. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I want to go out.”

Slowly, he gets her onto her wheelchair, not even bothering to tie the cloth round his face. If he’s honest, he doesn’t want her to see the Seam, or the street.  It is a wasteland of misery and squalor and greyness that seeps into everything.   Every house on their lane is burnt, practically to the foundations and the Seam, with it’s keep-to-yourself attitude and starved faces, won’t help. So he pushes her round the back of the house, with the blanket round her shoulders and another on her lap and lets her see the Meadow.

“This is Twelve?” She whispers as she watches the grasses dance in the wind, making ripples.

He nods. The Meadow has never seemed so beautiful, small white daisies flicker left and right among the greenery. The sky is tinged slightly orange-pink, in the middle of making its transition into its usual blue hue. It’s beautiful in shades like he’s never seen it before.

“It’s wonderful.” She says, closing her eyes, “I’m so glad we came.”

For the first time, so is he. The smile on her face as she basks in the gentle rising sun, it’s worth it.

“Ata and Ty…” Her words make his breath catch in his throat. “They’re gone, aren’t they?”

He can’t respond. His throat is dry and his tongue fuzzy and heavy.

His mother turns to him, “You did well, Percy. You looked after all of us.”

“I didn’t,” He can’t bring himself to look at her, “I failed them. They’re gone.” The corpses of two children he remembers as being something more but all his mind can see is their tiny still bodies in the ground.

“I’m still here, aren’t I?” She reaches one hand down and clasps his. It’s a small gesture, but he understands. They’ve still got each other. His mother is still here.

That’s all that matters.

“I haven’t been completely truthful to you.” She starts, eyes gazing towards the fenced off woods. “We weren't deported to Twelve by force. Yes, we were forced to leave Four but I chose Twelve. A long time ago, before I had you, before I met your father, I had a younger sister. Her name was Lisabeth. She looked more like my father than I did so it was often hard to tell we were related. One day, when I was sixteen, my father came back and told us that Peacekeepers wanted to shut our family’s apothecary down.”

Percy wonders where she is going with this, but allows her to reminisce.

“He wanted us to move from Four and go to Twelve where our services would be of more use. We had a big argument. He wanted to go help those people, I wanted to stay in Four and finish my studies.” Her smile grows wistful. “I wanted to be a writer, no matter what anyone said. Sounds selfish, hmm?”

He shakes his head.

“So I stayed behind, lived in the shop and continued with school. Lis was always better than me in the medical department and besides, I’d promised to keep in touch with her. I wrote to her about you, about your brother and sister, about your father. I was still studying when I first met him. He was walking along the beach holding the most beautiful trident I’d ever seen. Most in Four are made of wood, or if you’re lucky, iron but his seemed to be fashioned out of seashells and coral.”

“Was he rich?”

She laughs at his boldness, “I’m not sure. We fell in love that summer. His name was Poseidon, after the god of the seas.” She turns to look at him. “You have his hair and the same eyes, the spitting image.” Percy isn’t sure how to feel. “You were five when he disappeared but perhaps I'd already lost him before that.”

For a moment, he can’t breathe. Five years old, that would mean his mother had just given birth to Ty around then. He can’t imagine how tough it must have been.

“I got my last letter from Lis a week before we were evicted from my father’s house. She had met a wonderful man, a miner, and had two daughters, and though he was poor, she was happy. I lost contact with her after that.”

Percy doesn’t say anything. It’s just so unfair. His mom has never done anything wrong. So what has she done to deserve this? A flighty husband who leaves her when things get tough, a family that leave her behind, her children barely even talking before their deaths, scorned by all? Ahead, the boundary fence sits and he wonders if it’s to keep the ‘flesh-eaters’, as the people in The Seam call them, out or if it’s to keep the oppressed people of Twelve in.

“I love you, Mom.” He says quietly.

She squeezes his hand. “I love you too.”

Sally waits until the he leaves before she lets out a stream of coughs. Her chest tightens painfully and the air she manages to breathe in is like tar in her lungs. If she goes now, she’ll be okay. She’s told him about her sister, his father, life before this. He’ll be fine, he has survived on his own for so long that she’s sure of it.

She sighs as she heaves herself off the wheelchair and onto the odd mattress her son has somehow found. He’s a brave boy, she knows that, but impulsive beyond belief. His loyalty to her is… well… it would have been easy for him to have left her years ago, she knows that. She slumps down under the blankets and closes her eyes, holding back another round of coughs. It hurts.

It hurts.

It hurts.

“Poseidon,” She murmurs. She knows he’s likely dead but all the same, she can’t help it. “Watch over him.”

Percy swings round the Hob on the way home. It’s dark but there seems to be Peacekeepers everywhere. Still, he hauls his bag across The Seam and into the abandoned warehouse. Greasy Sae, as usual, is the first one to greet him.

“Percy,” She smiles, showing off one or two missing teeth. “Didn’t show up yesterday - we all thought you were dead.”

He shrugs and opens his bag. “Can you cut the leg for me?”

The deer lies on the wobbly old table but Sae looks even wobblier. She hovers for a moment before gazing at him wide-eyed. “You certainly are a lucky boy. First the goose, then a deer?” She shakes her head but takes out a knife. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll take the head and guts off you for a good hunk of paraffin. How does that sound?”

“Why don’t you give me an onion while you’re at it?”

She stares at him, her eyes hardening. And then the strangest thing happens, she chuckles. It sounds like something between a raspy choke and a wheezy cough. “My, my, you’re bold.” She takes the deer away to cut and Percy has to avert his eyes at the sight of the blood. Sure, he’s gutted fish, hunted animals using his knife, but it’s different when it is decapitated. She hands him back the leg he asked her to cut and a headless three legged deer, the first of which he puts away for later and the second of which he drags to Azorn – one of the other vendors.

Azorn has a stall round the back that he and his wife own. He only has one working eye, the other – he claims – was damaged during a bear attack. Percy is pretty sure that the scars on his face weren’t inflicted by bears, more like angry Peacekeepers but never voices his thoughts. It’s hard to tell if anyone’s listening in or not after all.

The old guy buys the deer off him for a good price -an old leather sheath for Percy’s knife and the first bit of fishing rope he’s come across since District Four. After that, he hurries home. He can boil the leg with the onion and it will be the best recovery meal ever.

Percy pushes open the door with a grin. “Mom, I got some deer! It’s going to be amazing, deer and onion st…” He stops.

The house is quiet and dark like the streets outside. “Mom?” No one has lit the paraffin. Cold too. In the darkness he feels around for a match, his hands slowly skimming the floor until it touches a small, paper box. It’s a little damp but after a few moments the match lights.

His heart stops. The wheel chair is empty. He scans the room, his hands clammy until he spots her tucked under her covers. Percy breathes a sigh of relief and comes over to check on her. But the moment he puts the candle down he knows something is wrong. She’s paler than earlier, much paler. Even sleeping, she is shaking and shivering under the covers. He reaches forward to touch her head but jerks back.

She’s cold. So cold.

Instantly Percy is out of the house, sprinting down the street. The medicine! She needs the medicine! How could he have forgotten? Prim must have gotten more by now. Dogs bark at him as he runs past, stumbling over his own feet as he goes round corners.  _ Fourth street down! Fourth street down!  _ He knocks on their door loudly, banging and shouting.

No one answers. He’s just beginning to scream when the Peacekeepers arrive, dressed in white. He supposes it’s to represent angels or peace. One sets his eye at Percy’s form mid-scream, hand raised to bang on the doors one last time. Where is Prim? He needs that medicine. The Peacekeeper at the front of the troop points at him and he knows he’s in trouble.

He jumps off the Everdeen’s porch but misjudges his landing. Is he getting one day of amazing luck: the stealing, the medicine, and the next getting a day that drowns him in bad luck? He lands on his ankle. Pain sears up round the joint but he doesn’t stop. He needs to get home as fast as he can.

But a scrawny ten year old is no match for ten fully-trained Peacekeepers.

They catch up to him almost instantly and surround him. “You are under arrest for public distrubance and inappropriate behaviour.” One puts a strong grip round his arms but Percy lashes out with his legs. He doesn’t know what he’s doing only that if he doesn’t go home she’ll die. He catches one in the chin and knocks the guy’s helmet off. The other two grab his arms as they attempt to get him in cuffs. With his arms bound, he aims between the legs, catching one or two off guard but the trick doesn’t work on the next. The third Peacekeeper grabs his leg as he tries to kick out. With both his legs restrained he can’t do anything but thrash tiredly.

One brings his baton out. He barely has time to register the long black weapon before it crashes into his skull. It’s like being hit by a brick wall. Percy can feel every bone in his body rattling with the force. White explodes from behind his eyes merging with white of the Peacekeepers helmets and the way they block out the night sky.

And then he’s out.

Percy wakes in a dark room, confused and sore. Why isn’t he at home? Where is his mother? He tries to rub his sore head but finds he can’t because his arms are bound by sharp edges that bite into his wrists. Still he has to get out, where is his mother? He tries to get up but almost screams as the pressure on his left leg is too much. Whatever he has done to his ankle it is bad, combined with the splitting headache he has only makes it feel a dozen times worse. What on-

The realisation hits him like a boat at full speed, crashing into the port, waves crashing into the jetty and sending bits of splintering wood flying through the air. It leaves him gasping.

His mother needed that medicine desperately. He’d gone to the Everdeen’s and… Prim wasn’t there, or if she was, she never came out. He curses himself for being so trusting. He should have realized she would trick him at the sight of such rich food – damn that lying, cheating, bully, tiny slip of a girl… what then? What was it that happened ne-

The Peacekeepers…

The door flies open and light floods in. Now illuminated, Percy can see the full extent of the room, which isn’t much. It is small, airless and has no windows. There is a Peacekeeper at the door, his visor low as two others file in carrying a strange white contraption. The two others proceed to set it up, transforming it into a chair and then they leave. It’s only the one with his visor down left.

He’s tall and stocky but when he lifts his visor, Percy wants to hit him.

Darius - the man that escorted them round The Seam, who told him about cheating the tesserae age limit.

Darius shuts the door and sits down in the chair, a yard away from him. “I never thought I’d see you here this early.” He says with a sigh, “You should have just taken that tesserae offer but no,” He claps his hands, it echoes in the cold room. His voice hardens. “You went and stole from Mayor Undersee’s house.”

Not a question.

A statement.

Percy suddenly feels sick. They know about what he’s done, they know about him stealing. And worse of all, he stole from the Mayor of Twelve. How was he to know? It was just a nice house with the door left open. “It wasn’t anything valuble, just… food.”

“Food?” Darius laughs. It sounds cold and harsh. “Do you not live in The Seam? Do you not see them? There’s lots of them there, like yourself, starving. I may not understand what it’s like to go hungry but at least I have morals.”

_ Morals?  _ Percy longs to spit back with as much force as his skinny frame can muster,  _ this coming from a dog of the Capitol? You have no morals.  _ He wants to say but he can’t. He is a coward. He doesn’t want to die. “Will I be punished?” He asks weakly.

“Punished?” There it is again, that cold laugh of the Capitol. “Of course. If they see us being lenient just because a kid’s the culprit, families will start sending their kids into thievery. District Twelve won’t be the coal district, no! It will be the District of the Thieves.” He chuckles and then shakes his head. “We can’t let that happen.”

Darius leaps up from his chair and leaves the room. “Take him.” Percy isn’t even asked what he has done with the food he stole, as if they don’t believe him capable of anything other than eating it.

The light is bright outside and dizzying, but he isn’t sure if it’s the hunger that is still eating at him or his head injury. Two Peacekeepers push him forcefully in the square where a crowd has gathered. Percy does his best to push the thought of them watching to the back of his mind, concentrating only on the sun on his back. And in a sort of daze he is pushed to the centre of the Square where two posts with blood stains flecked on them wait. Forced on his knees, he focuses on the ground under him as they bind his hands to the post. The ground he kneels on, though usually a sandy yellow colour, is a mix of brown and crimson.  _ Blood. _

Darius crouches to his level. “Kid, you messed up real bad.” He sighs.

Percy spits at him, for real this time.

Square. In. The. Face.

It feels good. Good to finally break out against the system. Worth every bit of pain brought by the slap that follows.

Darius’s face contorts into something ugly, and cruel. “You can try to provoke me all you like but you see, you’re getting double the punishment.”

He sneers.

“After all, your mommy’s dead.”

At first he cries out. Every crack of the whip behind him seems to burn and tear his skin all at once. It hurts, it hurts so bad. It’s a LIE! It has to be! It’s a – where is she? Where is his mom? The one who sews the buttons on his shirts? The one who makes him blue cup cakes for his birthday? The one who kisses Ata, Tyson, and him to bed at night? Where is she? WHERE IS SHE!?

He writhes in pain and panic.

(Where?)

_ Where? _

He searches the faces in the crowd.

_ No! No! No! Where? _

Is that her?

No.  _ No!No! _

She was better, wasn’t she?

Wasn’t she? ( _ Wasn’t she?) _

**_“Your mommy’s dead!”_ **

No she’s not.

( _ Dead)  _

_ No she… _

_ Dead _

No, she’s –

**DEAD**

She is dead. He has failed her, failed his mother, his friend, his only companion, his purpose. This pain is a different sort of pain from the one that bites at his back, one that makes him sob.

Mom

(Where are you?) 

Mom

(I’m sorry) 

Mom

(I’m scared)

MOM

_ (why does everyone have to go away?) _

MOM

_ (do you hate me is that why you just) _

_ (LEAVE) _

**MOM  MOM MOM**

_ save me _

The Square is silent and Percy is only vaguely aware of his crying sounding with each lash of the whip. This sort of pain leaves him numb.

After that, he doesn’t make a sound. Even as he hears the wet squelch of the whip as it bites into open gashes, all he does is stare at the crowd. Each face he commits to memory, every grey eye, black strand, greasy tear streaked face. Briefly he registers Prim’s face amongst them, sobs choked into her fist.

Because, even though they’re  _ breathing _ , they are not  _ living _ .

Even as the crowd leaves, Percy watches them through unfeeling eyes.

The last person goes just as the sun sets. The Peacekeepers haul him to his feet, but he can barely stand. Briefly Darius's face dances in front of him and he can't tell if it's just a

dReAm or

r*e*a*l*i*t*y.

"Sorry, kid, but Cray has orders to follow and I have mine." Percy can feel himself being lifted off his feet and onto the man's shoulder but the words flowing from Darius's mouth don't make any sense. "We were just going to shoot you and then it would be all over."

Perhaps that won't make any difference, being shot that is. The way that Darius is carrying him, it's as if he's already dead.


	5. White

Darius hauls the boy through the town, and feels as surge of pity as he walks through dead, blank corridors. The boy had by now lost consciousness, lying limp over his shoulder. Peacekeepers shoot him neutral glances and he responds by nodding, smiling. He hopes they can’t tell it’s false.

“Always end up with the shitty jobs.” He says, by way of explanation and resumes his walk through the building to the station.

If the boy’s not dead, he soon will be.

A bubble of regret fills the Peacekeeper as he marches down the corridors, left, right, left, left.

They had searched the boy’s house last night, looking for any remains of the food. Instead they had found a woman, lying cold and still on a thin mattress.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have told the boy that his mother was dead. Was it crueller to let him think happy thoughts that were lies or tell him the painful truth?

He forces any remorse and feeling down as he approaches the station. Now is not the time.

He is a Peacekeeper and he knows well that the Capitol watches every move.

“Darius!”

He looks up. Head Peacekeeper Cray smiles at him as he watches supplies being unloaded from the Capitol’s train. His face plump and round, cheeks that wobble at every word. He could have been a jolly, laughing, pleasant man, if not for hard, beady, flint-like eyes. The face smiles, but the eyes are cold.

“Cray, sir,” He nods and returns the smile. “The boy received his lashings in the square. We had many civilians come to watch.” Only because they had no choice. Squad 4 had rounded up anyone on the streets and in The Seam houses that they could find and monitored the crowd to make sure no one left before their say so.

The man grins, “I see, good work. You, throw the body out back and let the flesh-eaters do away with him.”

“Yes, sir.” Another Peacekeeper walks forward, face obscured by his helmet, arms outstretched for the body.

He hardens his heart. He hands the boy over and the other man walks away, carrying the body.

Cray shakes his head, chuckling. “We really must get you a new suit, Darius.”

Darius stares down at his hands, his white suit, the white boots.

The boy’s blood is everywhere.

And not just his.

The blood of innocents trickle off every surface.


End file.
